The Things We're Blind To
by CunningMascara
Summary: Year 10 is going to be a long one, for sure. Being rewritten, pending deletion and new name.
1. Chapter 1

This is about Alex's tenth grade year. He won't admit he's depressed, and needs some professional help. **There is a little substance abuse in this**. MI6 are still using him, and feel no guilt about it. I started writing this on an impulse. It's in Alex's point of view.

Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider.

**LLLLL**

"So you're Alex Rider, eh?"

I wince. I really hate my name.

"Yeah, if you want to think that."

The new teacher smiles. I guess he does.

"You have a very bad reputation, Alex Rider."

"Yeah. I do."

The new guy has a mole by his eye, with three black hairs growing out of it.

I've always wondered about that. What is it that makes hair grow more on moles? Is there some kind of genetic mutation or something?

Maybe the new teacher has cancer. It would help me out now if he did.

Aw, crap. That's not good for me to think. I have to play by the rules. My rules.

Rule number one: don't kill people. Rule number two: don't think about killing people.

Good rules, I know. Doesn't make life easier on me though.

**.".".".**

Jack took me out shopping yesterday. She thinks there's something wrong with me. I told her that was a very astute observation, and if she had any more like it she could send it in to a newspaper and become a certified genius.

She bought me a pair of black Converse and then we left.

**.".".".**

Aren't normal people supposed to hate starting school?

It's first period science, and all around me morning people are talking and yelling. The not-morning people are sleeping. The in-betweeners are telling as many people as they can to shut up.

**.".".".**

My first day of Year 10 did not start well.

I woke up this morning with a raw throat. Another nightmare that I don't want to remember.

I picked up a pair of jeans from the carpet and put on the nearest shirt I could find. It was red. To make Jack happy, I put on the Converse.

When I went downstairs, there was no one in the kitchen.

I've gotten used to that in the mornings. Jack stopped making breakfast six months ago, when I stopped eating it. She started sleeping in when I told her not to tell me good-bye before I went to school.

I picked up my backpack. It's a black Jansport that I've had since I was nine, and has only ever ripped once.

I ripped it when I was twelve. Some guys had been playing with knives and I told them to be careful. They ripped it with the knives and mocked me. I think they had been almost three years older than me.

I kicked them very hard and ran for it.

When I got home, Jack introduced me to duct tape. She had been mock-horrified to hear that I didn't know duct tape could fix anything. She duct taped my backpack back together, and we tell that story at family gatherings and laugh in our tuxedos and drink merrily from our champagne glasses.

Because I definitely have family gatherings.

On with it, I guess.

I picked up my backpack and headed out the door. My cell phone had a tiny bulge in my pocket, and my keys were around my neck. I had a little cash on me, but I don't know where it was.

I walked down the front steps slowly, as if I'd trip and fall and die if I went too fast. I unlocked my bike sleepily, my eyes drooping, because it seemed like something someone my age would do. I don't remember getting on the bike.

I do remember riding it, though.

It's an awesome feeling, riding at only-fast-on-a-bike speed. Exhilarating. The best part of my day is when I get to ride on my bike.

So it's understandable that I would get angry when a car runs into me.

It wasn't me, exactly. It was more the bike, and me using my instincts to jump onto the car right before impact.

The car had been running a red light. I'd had the right of way, and the driver still yelled at me. I yelled back, and he threatened to sue.

That made me laugh. First off, this guy didn't know who I was. Second, he ran a red light and it was my property that was damaged.

Third. _They_ wouldn't even let him get an attorney once my name was involved.

I had to walk the rest of the way to school. Of all the cliché things that could happen, it started to rain.

So you can understand why I was a little harsh with Tom.

**.".".".**

"Alex, there's something wrong with you."

That was what he said.

"No, there is not," I reply, with only a little bite.

"Yes, there _is_," he enforces.

"Look. There is nothing wrong with me. I might be just a _little _different from before, but, really, would you _not_ be?"

We both know what before means.

Tom looks down. "Alex, I think you need help."

That burns, but I don't blush. I never blush.

"Fine, then," I say. Tom looks relieved, but then he sees me gathering all my stuff. He knows what's about to happen.

"If you don't plan on getting better soon, don't talk to me," he says, and then hollers to a person across the room to sit with him.

I switch places with the kid Tom yelled at. I now sit next to It Girl. She's reading a battered copy of _Twilight_.

It Girl's grandfather invented something big way back when, so she's rich. She's also pretty and very flexible, which I know because she does gymnastics. I've never talked to It Girl before.

"Hi."

"Don't talk to me, druggie."

This is going to be a fun year.

**LLLLL**

What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

**BIG IMPORTANT NOTICE RIGHT HERE!!**

School has started. I won't be able to update quite as often as I'd like. I won't get the chance to _write_ as much as I'd like. So, if updates (this includes all my stories) are not as often as you wish, you may express it in a review, and I will reply saying how crazy the school hours at my school are and how crazy homework is and it's _school_. School's just bleah and puts you in a bad mood.

Well. Now that that's over with. On with the story.

Disclaimer: Because I'm definitely Anthony Horowitz.

LLLLL

I let It Girl do everything.

If you call today 'doing' anything. We listened to the teacher talk. He said we were going to study neurons and that if anyone acted out he would send us to our head's office and then we wouldn't go to university because we got sent to the head's office so much.

I'm not going to uni anyway, so I wondered what the point of me not acting out was.

_That's right. Too much attention._

I imagined him letting out an evil laugh after that, and tying all the students in class down and then _not_ killing them (congrats, Alex. You didn't break a rule. Whoopee).

The bell rang, which was a happy sound for everyone else in the room. It Girl's stuff hadn't ever been unpacked and she was in the halls before anyone else. Which was weird, because we were sitting across the room from the door.

Maybe she has magical powers that transport her from her seat into the halls whenever the bell rings. (I'm using sarcasm, genius. I'm not crazy. Really.)

Pretty sucky power. I'd rather have invisibility.

I'm walking down the hall toward English. Kids by their lockers are glancing at me and kinda backing away. Except I don't see them backing away. I'm looking down, which might not be good for my reputation (because it was bursting with rainbows already), but screw it. The floors are clean, so you can see the speckled design and silver lines separating tiles.

I look up to get my surroundings. A couple more steps to the English room.

"Rider."

Crap, then.

A few guys are standing in front of me, blocking my route to English. They look like they want a fight. I don't.

This time, instead of someone random I don't know, it's a guy I haven't liked since I met him in Year Seven. Named Daniel Poltuck. Black hair, brown eyes, really, really pale. Bulging muscles, on the rugby team. He's got a different girlfriend each week, if that says anything about anything.

Back in Year Seven, he kept framing me for things I didn't do, like spray-painting the gym walls and whatnot. I never got blamed (they couldn't actually _say_ it was me), but the administrators were wary of me after that. I provoked him into trying—key word is _try_—to punch me in the cafeteria one day while a teacher was looking on. For some reason, I don't think he ever forgave me.

"Move," I tell him. Neither of us has time for fake pleasantries. The bell's going to ring in about thirty seconds.

"No," he says back. He raises his eyebrows and smirks mockingly.

I tilt my head at him and don't say anything.

He lowers his eyebrows and says, "You couldn't take me." It's deadpanned.

I blink. "I'm sure," I say sarcastically. Not much venom is put into it, though.

Poltuck laughs at me. That starts his cronies laughing at me, too. No one else in the hallway laughs, though. It's always a serious fight when I'm involved.

It sucks. I ignore it.

Poltuck and his cronies move aside, and he gestures at me. "Go on through," he mocks.

I hate him.

**.".".".**

Everything in English is relearned. Every. Single. Year. Nothing changes. You're just reminded of how confusing the language is.

I don't know why we have to take it.

**.".".".**

I look up at the white board. It says that we're going to write an essay about what we did over the summer.

"_Oh, all I did was stop everyone who used Kleenex from dying because of lethal insecticide fumes crawling up their nose and then killing them."_

I don't think I should write that down.

"_Summer is a very interesting thing. You can save the world, stay up all night, sleep all day, or just laze around and watch reruns and old movies on television._

"_Me, I lazed around all summer."_

What an excellent start.

**.".".".**

English ended after 50 minutes that felt more like 50 years. I didn't get very far on my essay. I didn't write anything after "_Me, I lazed around all summer._"

I tore through the hallways to get to the class I'm in now, Geometry, so I wouldn't run into anyone who would give me trouble.

The trouble makers saw me, though, so they'll give me grief later.

**.".".".**

It's not that I'm afraid of the kids here. I am not fucking _afraid_ of _them_.

It's something else entirely.

**.".".".**

Well.

I ran through the hallways, not fast enough so that the lockers were a blur, but fast enough so that I got to Geo with three and a half minutes left before the bell rang. The teacher, Mr. Newman (I remembered his name—someone get me a Nobel Prize) talked about angles and cross-sections and lots of basic stuff.

I'm good at Geometry, and I like this class. I like maths, basically. There's always a right answer and a wrong answer, with nothing between them. No gray areas ever surprisingly pop up and just change things completely, so that all of a sudden there are other colors in the mix, like red and blue and green, and everything gets turned upside down. Just black and white, right and wrong, check or slash.

The 50 minutes felt like five.

**.".".".**

The halls weren't bad. Nobody really looked at me or paid attention to me this time. I was here today, that was discovered in the morning. It was midmorning now, and Tommy could have asked Jill out, which was much more juicy than plain ol' me attending class.

I go to the elective I was assigned (I wasn't there the day of the electives fair. Or the day you actually choose the electives). Home Environment and Life Learning. Some schools call it Home Economics. Brookland calls it HELL.

And it is.

We're making cookies today. Our teacher is in a bipolar mood, yelling at us and then telling us how excellent we're doing. I'm put in a four person group that will make cookies with me until the end of the year, or the next day a sub comes.

There's the know-it-all, Andrea. She's got black-almost-blue dark hair and red lips.

There's Mark, the clueless guy who makes everything into a joke. He has fair hair and blue eyes.

There's Sarah. She's shy, but her wild red hair makes her stand out.

Then there's me. I don't want to talk about me.

**.".".".**

The cookies aren't bad. Sugar cookies with icing and sprinkles. They don't taste like the store bought kind—these are sweeter and the icing is runnier and the sprinkles aren't as generic. The cookie isn't as soft, either, but I like it better that way.

Maybe HELL is good for some things. Maybe.

The bell rings. It's time for my demise, otherwise known as _lunch_.

**.".".".**

I go through the line. The people behind me ignore me. The girls in front of me giggle, and then burst into laughter over something I'm not sure I want to know about.

The line moves too slowly.

The girls laugh harder. I take one step forward, then rethink about how close I want to be to the laughing girls, and then take a step back. The girls sound like hyenas.

I roll my shoulders and blink.

_I will get through this, I will get through this._

**.".".".**

I didn't get through the line. I skipped lunch and went to talk to Ms. Bedfordshire. She seemed to like the company.

"Hello, Alex," she had said.

"Hello Ms. Bedfordshire," I had replied. I smiled at her with my lips. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. What about you? How's the first day going?" She smiled back at me. I adore Ms. Bedfordshire, I really do. She knows what questions to avoid and what questions to ask and how to make a student feel better.

"I'm tired. Woke up too early today. The first day is…going." It's hard to lie to her when she's being herself. Half-truths are good.

Ms. Bedfordshire laughed. "School starts too early in the morning, don't you think?"

And then the conversation had continued. The bell rang, and I had been sad to leave. She's my only ally in a school full of people who just don't understand.

**.".".".**

British History with Mr. Wexler. This year is not going to be fun.

The rest of the students like him well enough. He teaches history so that it's "fun". Most of the students seem to agree with his definition of fun.

I do not.

So he dislikes me.

He narrows his eyes when he calls my name for roll.

_Don't think about killing him. Don't think about killing him. Don't even think about _hurting _him. Don't, don't, don't, don't—_

"Here," I say. Some less informed students looked back and raised their eyebrows, then looked up at Mr. Wexler again.

"For once," he says. "Are you planning on being here tomorrow?" He says it jokingly, but both of us know that he is not kidding.

Oh, he's good.

"Yes sir. Do you?" I answer back as politely as I can.

"I do, Rider, I do," he says thoughtfully. Then he snaps back up, adjusts his tie, and continues the roll.

When the bell rings, we have played a name game even though we all know each other. I'm glad for the bell.

**.".".".**

I shouldn't have. Been happy for the bell to ring, that is. I checked my schedule as I was leaving class, and it's time for gym.

It's not that I'm not good at it. I'm very fit. I used to love gym, back when I was on the football team, back before everything went wrong, back when I used to not miss school.

Back when I could change into the gym uniform without having to go into a bathroom stall because my scars and bruises and the chest wound would freak everyone out.

But things aren't going to change back to the way they used to be, so I live with it.

The gym uniform is boring. The shirt is red with white lettering. It says _Brookland_ on the back. The shorts are black and generic.

The teacher, sitting in his office, calls out to us after seven minutes. "Out to the gym!"

The gym floor is waxed so much that you can see your reflection. I don't look at mine.

The girls are already gathered around the phys ed teacher when we get there, their shorts rolled up and shirts pulled tight by hair bands.

"All right! I don't care how you wear your uniform, just _wear it_!"

Mr. Wiseman must be teaching this year, then. He likes me. Maybe gym won't be so repulsive.

Mr. Wiseman sits us down and hands out a course syllabus, telling us to get our parents (I winced—he noticed) and guardians (he added that for my benefit. I gave him a half smile) to sign it or get an Incomplete for our first grade. He doesn't mean it, though, because he's nice and doesn't like to give out anything below a C.

When he's through handing out syllabuses, he tells us to stand up.

"We're going to go through the same routine you did last year. For anyone new, or anyone who just _forgot_, that's going to be ten push-ups, ten jackknives, ten jumping jacks, and running once around the gym. We're doing that every day for the rest of the year, and if it takes you longer than twenty minutes, you'll be writing me an essay on why you are the most unfit person in the class."

I look around me. Tom is in this class. Usually, that would mean we'd tie for first place in finishing, but now that things were—like they were, it would be a race for completion.

"When I say start, you will begin. First person to finish _today_ gets a get-out-of-jail free pass for tomorrow's exercises."

I scrutinized Tom. I know that Tom knows I'm looking at him, but he doesn't turn around.

Ignoring me. It's not a good tactic. I can ignore people longer.

"One…"

I continue to stare.

"Two…"

Tom turns to look at me. His eyes are neutral. That surprises me, because usually his eyes are full of emotion and life and views.

We lock eyes for a moment before Tom turns away, suddenly, like he's seen a ghost.

"Three…"

Huh. I wonder what that was all about.

_Oh. It's me._

"Start!"

I begin.

_Push-ups. Take a breath every time you go up. Jackknife. Close your eyes and just keep breathing. Jumping jacks. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth so you don't get out of breath. And run, run, run toward the track._

_And you're running, running, running, and then you look around and some people are still doing push-ups and someone is coming up behind you and it's Tom. You let him go in front of you without him or the teacher being able to tell._

_He sprints forward and you finish one step behind him._

"No exercises for you tomorrow. Good job, Harris. Alex, I thought for sure you were going to beat him for a second. Good effort. Go sit on the bleachers."

We walk over. The bleachers are all the way across the gym, and only the first three rows are set up.

"Why'd you let me win?"

So he did notice.

"Because you wanted it more."

And I go sit on the bleachers. He doesn't follow.

**.".".".**

Last class of the day is art. We're supposed to draw an apple.

The apple is light red, almost speckled with yellow, and brand-new looking. The stem is thinner than the average apple's is, and it reminds me of the time Sabina ate an apple at Wimbledon. She took the stem of her apple and twisted it around, saying one letter of the alphabet for each twist.

**.".".".**

"_Sab, what are you doing?" _

"_Checking to see what the first initial of my future husband's last name is going to be." She stopped twisting the apple for a moment, then resumed. "This stem is taking forever to go off. I've already been through the alphabet twice!"_

_I looked on at her, sure that my eyes looked amused. "Okay then. Continue with thou's proceedings, and I, humble Alex, shall gaze upon thou with looks of…er. With looks of stuff." _

_Sab smiled, but didn't say anything._

_I watched her twist and twist and twist, finally stopping when the stem came off in her hands._

"_Finally!" she said. _

"_What letter?" I asked curiously._

"'_F'. Guess that means I won't be marrying you, Alex."_

**.".".".**

Ian used to ask me every day if I learned something. Sometimes, if I didn't, I would make something up so he would be happy. He saw through the lie every time, though, and then he would teach me something new.

I imagine him asking that to me now, as I'm walking toward my locker.

"_Well, Alex? What did you learn today?"_

I learned that I suck at drawing apples, and that I suck at school even more.

LLLLL

What do you think? Longer than usual. I had a lot less time to get this done, as I wanted to have it up here today (or else it would be put up here Saturday), so tell me. Oh, and happy Labor Day!


	3. Chapter 3

So. I am so, so sorry for the incredibly long... uh, pause between updates. And for the shortness of this chapter. On the bright side, Algebra is going better. It's English that I'm not doing so well in now.

Anyway, sorry.

Disclaimer: because I'm definitely a COLLEGE GRADUATE, published, 40-year old _man_.

LLLLL

I had to walk home.

It was drizzling outside, a remnant from this morning. The weather seemed to be in sync with my mood.

I thought about taking the bus, but then decided against it. Buses were too small, and I'd been feeling claustrophobic in things with small exits and one main entry lately.

So I walked. I got wetter than I wanted to, but I felt good about my decision. Until I got back home.

**.".".".**

"You're wet."

Jack must not be in a good mood.

"Yeah."

"You don't have your bike." Her eyes narrow slightly. No one normal would have noticed this change in expression.

I wonder what that says about me.

"It got ran over this morning." My voice is emotionless.

A look of panic sweeps across her face. I'm sure a similar look crosses mine, but for a different reason.

"No, no," I say, with only the tiniest hint of desperation, "no one did it on purpose. I wasn't being careful."

The panic doesn't leave her face, but it lessens. I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Jack is... an amazing person. No matter what I tell her, no matter how sarcastic I get, she doesn't give up on me. I have no idea why.

But I'm glad for it.

"Oh. Okay. I'm going to the store. Do you need anything?"

"No." My voice stays emotionless.

"Okay. Bye, then."

"Bye."

She left.

**.".".".**

It happens again the next day. And again the next day. I feel like a shampoo bottle. _School, house, sleep. Repeat until clean._

It happens for a week.

**.".".".**

Saturday is always a good day. For me, at least. I figure if it's good for me, then it must be fantastic for the rest of the world.

So it was disappointing when it rained.

I was planning on running, and my mood sours when I wake up and hear the _pitter-patter_ of rain on the roof. Jack looks at me and tells me to do it anyway, if it's really bothering me

So I do. It's not the best experience of my life.

**.".".".**

Ever heard of runner's high? That's me. Right now. Except a lot wetter. (No dirty jokes.)

It's one of the few happy moments of the week, right now is. Running through the streets of London. I think I've gone two, three miles so far.

Who knew that working for the government was so beneficial to your health? (Me, that's who, you fucking idiot. And it's not beneficial to your health, you dumbass.)

I'm running, and it's good and nice and I feel like I'm flying because the sidewalk is moving so fast below me. It's a good time to be in a good mood, even if it is raining.

I get to the worse-off parts of London, and decide to buy a bottle of Jack Daniels for Jack. As a joke. Maybe a nice surprise. I should be nicer to her. She tolerates me, after all.

I go into the shop and the bell rings. The man at the counter has on a green vest with too many pockets to count. He has a beer belly and a crooked smile.

"What're you doin' here, kid?"

I look at him. He looks into my eyes – not romantically, just locking eyes for a moment – and then looks away. A lot of people seem to do that. I think I'll call it the Eye Thing.

"Buying a bottle of Jack for my housekeeper." Ironic.

The clerk mutters under his breath.

"You don't look older 'n seventeen."

Inwardly, I shrug. Three years – not too shabby. I could fake a driver's license.

"I'm not going to drink it." I stare at him. Hard. (Eye Thing in effect in three, two –)

He looks away.

"Yeah, kid, that's what they all say. Get a friend that's at least a little bit older than you next time. I'm not selling."

Well.

"Please?" I say nonchalantly.

"Out."

I leave.

**.".".".**

_That didn't go as well as it should have_, I think as I'm running home. So I stop in a little grocery store on the way back and buy Jack some flowers. It's close to Brookland, and I think I see a classmate with a parent a few aisles away. It's the sometimes rare species of student that doesn't stare every second of the day.

Which is nice.

I go to the check-out line. The grocer's nametag reads _Hi, my name is Margarette. _Her name reminds me of butter.

"Hi, my name is Margarette. I hope you had a pleasant experience shopping at Hamley's. Would you be interested in our Pampers' Toilet Tissue sale? It lasts the rest of the day."

A long time ago, I would have made a thousand sarcastic comments at that.

"Just this, thanks," I say.

"Alright."

She checks me out.

**.".".".**

Since I've got some cash left, I take a cab home so I don't mess the flowers up. They're violets – her favorite. Ian got them for her birthday when I was nine. I remember him being surprised that she liked them so much, because he had just picked up _his_ favorites for her on his way home from… on his way home one day.

I reach the house and pay. As I'm walking up the front steps, I think about how shitty my life is.

Not really. I just say over and over that I've got a shitty life, mainly because I don't _want_ to think why I have a shitty life.

Then again, who's ever really cared what I wanted?

LLLLL

Proposition: slower updates (where I write each chapter as I go) or _really_ long break and very frequent updates (where I write everything out and then update like, once a week or something)?

Oh, and is the new layout messing anyone else up? I went to review a story the other day, and ended up favoriting it instead. I'm not opposed to it (although it is a little more complicated to get to the reviews page), but it is kind of... different. (Thanks again, Captain States-the-Obvious. Come again soon.)

Tell me what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

Oh dear god. I'm sorry, everyone. I've posted this twice, because I can never remember these damn author's notes. I've only got three today, and they're short, so don't worry. One: Updates aren't going to be too often, now that my weeks are pretty much filled up until April. Legack. Two: Thanks to Jusmine. Many many thanks. Three: I do not own Alex Rider.

L*L*L*L*L

"_Sad is happy for deep people."_

Jack liked the flowers. She smiled and looked at me as if she expected me to smile back. So I bit back the unfamiliarity and curled my lips.

It wasn't much, but her eyes warmed up some.

And then the phone rang.

**.".".".**

_One month later_

There's a bruise on my face. When I have lunch with Ms. Bedfordshire tomorrow, she's going to wonder. Hopefully she won't ask, though.

On the upside (which shouldn't be up. For any other kid, it would be down. Then again, I'm not exactly a kid), it wasn't too bad this time. A lot of threats and a couple hits, but otherwise I'm fine. There wasn't much of a fight this time. I think the guy realized that maybe I just wanted it over with.

For the first time, the bad guy listened. Kind of. It was weird, to say the least.

But it's getting late, and I need some sleep, even if it'll only be an hour or two.

**.".".".**

I don't want to do anything for MI6 anymore. I don't know how to stop, though, or even if I can. Not the blackmail part, of course, but the other stuff. No one ever told me that being chased around by bad men with guns was addicting.

It has to stop.

I guess I should probably figure out how, but I don't want to. Not now. I just want to go to sleep.

**.".".".**

When I wake up, school is over. Jack called me in sick and brought home some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups minis.

When people say Reese's, it gets on my nerves. Everyone calls it Reese's, said like recess or something. But it's really said like _reesees_, with a stretch in the _e_ at the end. It said so on a commercial once, I think.

**.".".".**

I think I should become a rebel. Dress in black. A John Lennon youth. Disenfranchised. All I need now is alcohol, cigarettes, and an American country singer.

And some hair dye. I heard somewhere that no rebel has blond hair.

**.".".".**

When I finally roll out of bed, it is six o'clock in the evening. I groggily walk down the stairs and find Jack watching the news.

Jack hates the news.

"Wha's hap'ned?" I yawn out.

"An apartment building in D.C.'s burned down," she answers.

"Oh. What day is it?" I ask, suddenly awake. I notice that the living room smells like lemon Febreze. Jack hates Febreze – the commercials get on her nerves. She doesn't see the difference between it and the regular grocer brand, either.

"Halloween, Alex. It's Halloween," she replies. She manages to keep her voice under control. I've always managed to keep up with the holidays, even after some stuff that'd make you cringe.

Was I really gone that long? That's _fan_-bloody-_amazing_.

Oh god. Did I really just say (think. You don't have conversations with yourself in your head. You are not schizophrenic yet) fan-bloody-amazing? What does that mean? Fanamazing?

I really am going wonky, then.

"Oh," I whisper back.

"Did you know my friend from high school lives in that building? Lived, I should say. She had her fifteen seconds of fame on the telly a moment ago."

Huh. Telly. I guess that means Jack has started to adapt.

"Television, sorry."

Guess not.

"I should give her a call, later. I think I still have her cell phone number somewhere…" Jack gets up and walks into the kitchen. I remember I should apologize for her friend, but something in my mind says it's too late now.

It's too late for a lot, I guess.

**.".".".**

I tackle the homework I had to do before I left and end up going to bed around nine (a whole three hours of waking moments… congrats, Al! You're _really_ making a _lot_ of progress!) as to get sleeping over with.

I wake up still feeling the screams vibrating in my throat. It was a particularly brutal night.

You'd think that the night after the mission would be the worst night. It's not, because I'm basically dead on my feet. It's like being knocked out on anesthesia – a dreamless sleep.

The night after is always the worst because you can remember everything. There hasn't been any time for the memories to fade.

I should probably see a shrink, even though I already know I'm crazy.

**.".".".**

Yet another rainy day in England. Why does anyone stay here?

(Because they're blackmailed, lied to, and cheated on. Everyone ends up coming here and never being able to get out.)

(Or maybe that's just me.)

**.".".".**

School is not particularly enjoyable.

_Science_: It Girl is still a bitch and doesn't trust me with the Bunsen Burners or chemicals. Probably thinks I'll find some way to make drugs or blow up the classroom.

I've already blown up the classroom(s). Why would I want to do it twice?

_English_: The teacher wants my _What I Did Over the Summer_ essay. I gave her my three-sentence thing and she gave me The Look That Teachers Think Intimidates People.

I was not intimidated.

_Geometry_: I think the teacher likes me. Or maybe he's new. He told me to read the book and do a couple problems for make-up and that was it.

I knew there was a reason to like maths.

_HELL_: Andrea got up my ass about being gone so long. Mark said I was off doing "stuff" with Andrea and Sarah over the weekends and they were covering up for me. Sarah turned bright red and Mark waggled his eyebrows.

I don't think the teacher noticed I was gone. He handed me a pan and told me to tell Mark to shut up and get the cookie dough out of the fridge.

_Lunch_: Mrs. Bedfordshire asked me how being sick was. I told her it was no fun and I wished I wasn't ever sick again.

I think she understood that I wasn't talking about being sick.

_British History_: I did not attend. I don't think I would have been able to put up with Mr. Wexler. Besides, I have to keep up with my disenfranchisedJohnLennonbadboy image. (Insert snort here.)

On a different note, the custodians are really keeping the boys bathrooms cleaner.

_Gym_: That was an epic fail. I was sore and tired. I think Mr. Wiseman noticed. He told me to sit the rest of class out once warm-ups were finished.

_Art_: I'm really out of the loop. We've moved on from apples to her used coffee mugs. She must be running out of things for us to draw.

Poltuck was an ass in the halls, and I think Tom looked at me once the entire day.

_School ought to be illegal. Then again, I'd probably be forced to go every day if it was._

**.".".".**

When I get off the bus (have to find money for a bike soon), I'm in a regular mood. Regular for me, anyway.

I'm walking up my house's steps when I see a bird begin to devour a worm stuck on the sidewalk.

And they say animals are so different from people.

L*L*L*L*L

:)? :(? :/? Sorry for posting twice (again).


End file.
